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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.

William Wordsworth

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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
Lyricist
Poet
Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
Wait
Move
Knowing
Rashly
Waiting
Prompt
Moving
Prompts
Found
Sought
Things
Rarely
Firm

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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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